


Change of Plans

by WolfVenom



Series: R6S Drabbles [27]
Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Bittersweet, Blood, Bombs, Character Death, Crying, Drabble, Explosions, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Melancholy, Sad Ending, Self-Sacrifice, Terrorism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-05 14:32:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18830596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfVenom/pseuds/WolfVenom
Summary: He always knew how best to solve problems. Always.Sledge/Maestro gift, because I was feeling a little too happy and needed to ruin it~





	1. Humility

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ki_ru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ki_ru/gifts).



> Look I don't know how to craft explosives and I'm not that bright when it comes to chemistry either so cut me some slack in terms of the boom booms, thank yah.

There is something oddly poetic about the failure of a mission. 

 

    Of course, it doesn’t begin that way. The plan is simple and executed perfectly: the entire squad split into three teams to better assess the threat and each deployed separately. No one dares to question their commanding officer’s strategy, they are all aware Sledge is the most competent one and clearly best fit for the role of a leader, following his every order down to a tee is critical for the best outcome. It’s second nature to them all; there are a select few operators in Rainbow which possess the skills needed for leading battle plans, and Sledge just so happens to be one of them without question. 

 

    He adapts on the fly -- primed to handle the most extreme of changes confidently and assuredly, ensuring fewest casualties in exchange for the best outcome available. The lives of his teammates are one of the most valuable things in his command. No man or woman is expendable as long as he is in charge, a fact he’d fight tooth and nail for against all odds. 

 

    So of course, when he realizes the terrorists have planted a ‘Backup Plan’ in the basement of the villa they had scouted, his top priority is to maintain panic levels and guarantee his troops’ safety. He sends his two flanking officers, Mute and Hibana, upstairs to regroup with the others under the guise of ‘maintaining stealth’. It’s not like they would question his command anyway, but giving them a believable reason helps in reducing the amount of worries their wild minds will come up with for his actions will, and erase possible protest. His excuse is false, of course, but he’s maintained a pristine record up until now, and he isn’t piling more deaths than necessary onto it.

 

    Maestro’s voice cracks to life in his ear, automatically bringing some much needed happiness to Sledge’s composure, melting the anxiety from his back as he tip toes down the stairs, gun prepped and at the ready. “ _I’ve got two of your little ones on the second floor with me and my unit. What’s up with that_ , tesoro?”

 

    Sledge finds himself smiling softly underneath the cover of his mask, a content huff making itself known. He peeks his corners and double checks the halls before answering the message, formulating a response which could throw Maestro’s intuitiveness in for a loop and prevent the Italian from figuring out what it is his lover intends to do.

 

    “I’ve cleared the cellar, there’s no need for us to waste two perfectly capable soldiers covering an empty level”, is his reply, concise and most importantly, believable, “I’m gonna stay here and keep an eye on the exit window, you just accept my little present and focus on handling defusal upstairs.” 

 

    Maestro hums in amusement, and Sledge is well aware that he barely believes his half-baked excuses, but dare not question his authority on the open channel, where everyone can hear. He simply relays his message and tunes out with a gentle “ _roger that_ ”. 

 

    The unheard worry in his voice was almost malleable. Sledge’s heart clenches fiercely in the confines of his chest, squeezing taut and causing the blood rushing through his veins to chill. He shoulders his rifle as he approaches the small package of explosives taped in a haphazard pile in the corner of the room, overflowing onto the desk nearby. His gaze falls. This was not planned. This is a variable they have not prepared for. Inside his head he knows that there is no way they are going to be able to defuse the whole operation, and he’s not prepared to sacrifice the men to attempt as such. 

 

    A weight in his belly makes itself known, bile rising in his throat like a cobra, poised to sink its fangs into an innocent child who tread much too close to the hooded serpent out of curiosity. But the serpent doesn’t see a child, and the child doesn’t see a monster. It all ends the same regardless. This just happened to be the one snake there was never an antivenom for. 

 

    Idle chatter softly flows through his earpiece, and Sledge props his hammer up against the wall furthest from the bomb besides the garage entrance, fingers gripping the familiar -- _comfortable_ , weight of the handle much longer than he intended. Hardly anything wavers in his voice these days, but he won’t take the chance with Maestro. Tuning into squad Charlie’s frequency, Sledge chooses his next words with utmost care as he pulls package upon package of C4 from the amalgamation of destruction, lessening the overall load with methodical dismemberment. 

 

    Gradually, he coaches indifference into his expression and presses the radio gently, flinching minutely at the static popping briefly into his very skull. 

 

    “Charlie-one-one-four this is Alpha, confirm your position.” He orders, grateful that they decided on fitted devices for silence rather than their typical ‘walkie-talkies’. 

 

    IQ answers first, accent thick where she forces her voice into a hushed whisper, “ _Alpha this is Charlie, we are currently in position at the lounge, defusal in progress, twenty-seven seconds remaining_.”

 

    Sledge hums in appreciation, unheard to his team, of course. He mulls over the strategy in his head to best accommodate this… unsightly change in his plan, before he rings her back up again. “Copy that, I want all teams to rally up at the library in thirty; head over to exfil via the ruins from there and make a straight beeline for the chopper as fast as possible. Standby for incoming extraction.”

 

    He can tell she is confused, but IQ doesn’t say a word, thankfully. With a frustrated noise, Sledge pulls his comm out and lets it hang idly against his shoulder, heaving a breath as he mentally prepares himself to attempt to make sense of this mess of an explosive. Each team came well equipped with a defusal tablet, but it would be of little effect on the clearly chemical stopwatch orchestrating the mixtures’ countdown. Briefly, Sledge is reminded of Bartlett. 

 

    He wiggles his fingers between the casing surrounding what appears to be the main contraption, unveiling a worrying amount of technology; wires, buttons, switches, a disgusting number of terribly welded framework, and a single, salvaged motherboard, strangled by circuits of all kind. The detonation parameters are directly connected to the main bomb piece, that much is evident from the newly exposed guts, so Sledge gets to work peeling excess ammunition from it, leaving behind a significantly smaller, no-less-dangerous contraption in its wake. 

 

    It appeared as if they just taped a bunch of excess explosives to the main section. Hoping to amplify the result, no doubt, but Sledge is confident he has reduced the fallback damage significantly. Now instead of blowing a massive crater into the earth and drowning the surrounding skies in toxic ash, its likely the only loss will be the villa and the grassy plains in the immediate vicinity. A shame, really. The mansion really was an incredibly beautiful escape. 

 

    Before long, the job is done. Beneath him, the bomb begins hissing angrily as whatever formula mismatched inside of it begins its natural sequence. His nose tingles as the scent of sulfur follows the wispy trails of smoke emerging from the cracks in the device, evident even through the filters of his gas mask. Sledge can barely stop himself from choking on the smell, resorts to gagging silently and shaking his head.

 

    He sighs, turning heel to approach his lonesome hammer and sliding to the floor besides it, staring with empty eyes at the nuclear weapon across the room which managed to seal his fate in one fell swoop. There is a detonator in his palm, gripped tightly with a creak of leather, programmed to the makeshift bomb through a haggle of cords to control its timer if only for a few lifesaving seconds. Moments which his squad would need to escape. Moments they wouldn’t have gotten if he hadn’t made the sacrifice to stay behind and give it to them. 

 

    For one odd reason or another, there is no familiar burn of sorrow and regret behind his eyes, or the closing of his throat as reality hits him. He’s a professional soldier, trained for these exact situations, and fantasizing about all the dates he and Maestro will never get to go on, all the kisses lost to eternity and loving touches swept away in the sand, won’t get him anywhere.

 

    _Ah, Adrianito…_

 

    He is reminded of the Italian sharply, heart thudding frantically whereas it remained steady when confronted with his _own_ demise. Imagining the excruciating pain across his beloved’s face, the tears destined to stain all their pillows and the endless nightmares Diana won’t be able to snuggle away. His passing would leave them _both_ broken, holding onto each other for the support they so desperately need from himwhilst he is unable to reciprocate, and the thought dampens Sledge’s cheek abruptly in one thin trail. 

 

    The earth rumbles angrily around him, dust and tiny bits of debris shaking loose from the ceiling. Gunshots soon follow, next by poised shouting as his teammates above handle the apparent survivors of their siege, downing the [ _hopefully_ ] last terrorists and fleeing the resulting explosions from suicide bombers, or a possible grenade retreat. Whatever it was, it was enough to weaken the villa’s wooden structure, turning the townhouse unstable quickly. They’d have to hurry. 

 

    At this point he knows that he needs to pull off one last bluff before the end, so he addresses his nine person crew over the comms. “Alpha reporting, I’m in the chopper, move it ladies!” His voice barely breaks, but the air of exhaustion in his tone certainly helps sell the lie. He hopes they assume his demanding attitude is due to success. A round of ‘ _copy that, boss_ ’ passes through and he smiles to himself, hearing the playfulness in James’ voice and the reprimanding growl of Mike soon after and feeling affection well inside his core. 

 

    Mute startles him out of his reminiscing moment by activating their private channel. “See you soon, Seamus.”

 

    Sledge swallows painfully around his own contrition and nods to himself, knowing Mute can’t see the gesture yet comforted by the act regardless. “Stay safe, lad… I’m counting on you.” The feed cuts off with a click.

 

     On one hand, the Scotsman is glad Maestro hasn’t contacted him either. Hearing his voice would trigger every emotion bubbling beneath the surface of his composure and reduce him to a pitiful mess. Speaking with him would bring them both nothing but pain, for surely the Italian would notice something was wrong at that point. He knows it’s vile of him, keeping the blinds closed tightly on his _soulmate_ , but he allows himself one moment of selfishness, huddles into his dark corner and lets everyone he ever loved fly away on an aircraft they believed him to be on, unaware he was locked in a cellar in the ground, destined to a bloody grave of rubble and fire. 

 

    Reports confirm every operator has evacuated the villa, all of them hurriedly boarding their escape chopper and Sledge is confident the hustle and bustle and residual elation from a mission complete will cloud his missing presence for just long enough for him to _pull the trigger_ \-- 

 

    The tear catches against his mask, pooling by his chin. But it never falls. And it never will. 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Continuity

   Maestro had just stocked his gun into a small weapons locker near the cockpit when the blast hit, jerking the helicopter aggressively before Jäger managed to pull them back on course with a few stability maneuvers. Fear erupts in silence throughout the gang of operators, glancing at each other and frantically searching for answers, those of which dawn onto the Italian in a sudden bout of panic, and Adriano lets his forehead crash against the metal plating in front of him with an agonized keen. 

 

   That damned bastard… Of course, Maestro would not expect him to do anything else in that situation: the one he has only now pieced together for himself. There was little that Sledge  _ wouldn’t  _ do when it came to protecting his brothers-in-arms, he just hoped and prayed against all odds that the chance never presented itself. That he never would have to live through the testing of that theory. But whatever benevolent deities who lent ear to his pleas deemed them unworthy; judged his cries with a hand of marble cruelty, tested its taste on their tongue and spat it back out. He had been weighed, and found wanting.

 

   Suddenly there is an empty void inside his very being, a gap between his conscience and his emotions, separated from the real world by weak fingers scraped bloody and raw and straining for something,  _ anything  _ to alleviate the numbing pain. 

 

   Time blurs before his eyes, and soon his body is no longer his to control. He is so very aware that he is speaking, limbs are moving and people are arguing, but the fog refuses to clear his mind and feeling vanishes entirely.

 

   He finds himself facing the smoking remains of the villa.

 

   Nomad and Thatcher are standing behind him, ready to provide support wherever they can and whenever they are needed, but Maestro ignores their concerned murmurs and the shouting from inside the slowly powering down heli, Frost’s words ineligible but violent in the way they hurl over Smoke’s. Weightless, pulled down only by his grief and the once-joyful presence of a little box in his pocket that once prompted a giddy feeling of unadulterated  _ devotion _ now lacking everything, he works his way through crumbled wood and stone and massive chunks of charred history. 

 

   Deep down, a part of him is grateful for the solitude the others provide him as he searches deliriously, picking through the dust for any memento of solace, a shred of a memory that the disaster would spare him. Something to confirm that the twisted mass of sorrow and anger broiling low in his belly was not lying. The heart beneath his skin wails, but Maestro’s face is set in frigid stone.

 

   A rock gives under his persistent shoving, revealing splintered remnants of what might’ve been an antique oak desk, papers singed and being tossed around wildly in the breeze around him. Pursing his lips, fingers going white-knuckled and a sinking feeling crawling up the ridges of his spine, Maestro leans down to pull the tattered shred of cloth from where it lay pinched between wreckage of unidentifiable origins. Not like he would care, anyway. 

 

   “Adriano… we have to  _ go,  _ I’m sorry, but we have to.” 

 

   The “ _ Seamus wouldn’t want you to dwell like this”  _ goes unsaid, as IQ breaches the haze clouding his mind abruptly, a gentle hand laying on his shoulder tenderly urging him back to join the others. Her touch is timid, akin to that of a child attempting to soothe a spooked doe. Maestro scoffs, less jovial than he intended and coming off dull. He is no cowering  _ deer.  _

 

   But he follows aimlessly behind her, despite the fact. Her hand is warm, even through the material of his gloves, coloured a bright red and darkened at the tips. 

 

   Of course. Of  _ course _ the tartan would be drenched in blood, edges burnt and hue lacking its once vibrant saturation. No man was spared by the fulmination; no hammer or badge or dog tags or even a  _ body,  _ but at least this one treasure survived, Maestro thinks to himself with a small and bitter smile. 

 

   Reboarding the chopper is nothing but a chore, it appears that the three other SAS men are dealing with the tragedy as well as he is, what with Mute sobbing into Thatcher’s shoulder while said officer and Smoke suck their tears in and provide comfort to the young man. Auto-pilot begins to shut down his brain, slowly descending into a catatonic stupor in order to recuperate from the shock, and Adriano thumbs the velvet in his pocket and laughs to himself at the thought of proposing all alone to an algid granite slab.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hit em with that dead boyfriend feels

**Author's Note:**

> maestro, in kirus fic: tesoro  
> me: guess he says it all the time now


End file.
